Boys in the Valley(10)

I notice that all the priests are watching the table now, most likely wondering what’s happened. Johnson is already on his feet.

After a moment, Poole speaks. Calmly, assuredly. “Something wrong with your food, Bartholomew?”

Poole is only asking a question, but everyone hears it for the threat it is. I pop the last bit of bread into my mouth and force myself to swallow it down as I watch.

Bartholomew, as if frozen, still has one hand extended. Simon, who looks visibly frightened, has pulled his own hand back. It sits in his lap, hidden beneath the table.

“No, Father.” Bartholomew’s voice sounds unexpectedly strong in the large, high-ceilinged room.

If I didn’t know better, I’d call it defiant.

That would be a mistake.

“Don’t worry about it, mate,” Simon whispers. “Please, it’s fine.”

Only a few of us are close enough to hear this. Bartholomew, however, acts as if he’s heard nothing.

Poole remains seated, but now he leans forward, elbows on the table, as if studying a chess board. “Are you not hungry? Or perhaps you are ill, Bartholomew?”

“I feel fine, Father.” Bartholomew’s tone sounds less certain now. He’s pulled back the offering of meat and bread, but continues to hold it awkwardly, as if unsure what to do with it. I watch a thin brown line of watery gravy run down his thumb and drip onto the tabletop.

I look toward the priests. Poole’s face flattens, a blank slate, but I notice Andrew’s brow is creased in worry. White appears his usual befuddled self. Johnson, of course, is eager.

Meanwhile, none of the boys in the dining hall have so much as twitched. All of us simply stare, transfixed. Helpless.

“Then,” Poole says mildly, silky as a cat inviting a mouse to dinner. “Eat your food.”

It’s truly a chess match now, everyone watching each move, all of us wondering how bad it’s going to get.

Simon shakes his head at Bartholomew in warning.

Don’t do it.

I pray Bartholomew heeds his advice.

*

Andrew feels sick to his stomach.

The boy is not someone he’s especially close to, but he has never seemed obstinate. Now, however, Andrew sees plainly the defiance in his face, sees it and prays for it to disappear into servitude, for the child’s own sake.

He has no wish to see anyone else get hurt.

Against his better judgment, he turns to Poole seated next to him, and speaks softly. “Father, perhaps we could let the boy have the food. He’s guilty of nothing but dirty fingernails, after all.”

Poole turns to Andrew as if bored. He replies loudly, as if wanting the boys to hear the rebuke. The lecture spills from his lips, easy as a recitation. “It’s a matter of discipline, Father Francis. Today it’s dirty hands, tomorrow they’re oversleeping. Next, they’re talking back, not following instruction. Sound structure needs sound discipline. Rebellion needs to be completely, and totally, dominated by those in charge. Without it, the structure will topple like a house built on sand.”

Andrew forces down his bitterness at being lectured like a child, knowing it’s exactly the tone Poole is aiming for—he doesn’t want to rebuke Andrew; he wants to humiliate him.

“Do you understand?”

Andrew nods, unable to keep the heat from his cheeks.

Poole gives him a final glance, then turns back to the matter at hand. “Bartholomew, please stand.”

At the rear of the room, Bartholomew swings his legs over the bench and stands, one arm held aloft, the food resting in a trembling hand.

“The rules of the orphanage are simple, and direct,” Poole continues. “If your hands are not clean for meals, you must wash them again until they are clean. If this means you miss the meal, then you go without and you do better the next time. Tell me, do you understand why we have these rules?”

Bartholomew thinks for a moment, although his look of defiance does not waver. “For order, Father Poole.”

Andrew sits back, wipes a hand across his face. He silently prays for God to give the boy wisdom. There’s a look in the child’s eyes that worries Andrew greatly.

He looks angry.

“That’s correct. Next time, you see, Simon will make sure that his hands are properly washed, thus ensuring good hygiene, which in turn keeps everyone healthy. This is how we learn. Now, by sharing with him, you are taking away this important lesson. You’re actually hurting him.”

Poole reclines, and Andrew struggles with the dark, wormy feeling that the priest is enjoying this. “And now,” Poole says, voice dripping with politic sorrow. “I need to teach you a lesson. A lesson about remembering the rules.”

Bartholomew trembles, as if a chill wind has blown past him, but says nothing. Andrew wonders how cold the meat in his hand has gotten; how all of the remaining, uneaten food must have cooled during Poole’s lecture.

“Since you want to take away Simon’s lesson . . .” Poole puts a finger to his chin, as if debating the proper outcome, one Andrew knows he’s already secured in his mind. “Then Simon will take away your food.” Poole leans forward. “All of your food. Both what is left on your plate, as well as what you would have received at dinner tonight.”

Bartholomew doesn’t move. The room is deadly silent.

“Give him your plate, Bartholomew.”